Pathway to Japanese Literature

Once again, the season of snow arrived. When it came to snow, I immediately recalled the pitiful Sanshiro Asami.

At that time, I worked as an ordinary Japanese language teacher at the prefectural girls' school in a certain town—let’s call it H City—in the far northern part of the country. Sanshiro Asami was an English teacher at the same girls' school and also my closest friend at that time.

Sanshiro’s family home was in Tokyo. Though his family was a fairly wealthy merchant household, Sanshiro—being the second son and of a different disposition—upon graduating from the English literature department at W University, lightly took to an itinerant teaching career across various regions. He had apparently aspired to literature, but having yet to achieve that ambition, by the time we met in H City, he had already become a good father to an eight-year-old child, bearing the weight of thirty. He was a somewhat short-tempered man, but precisely because of that, he was an extremely good-natured person without any malice, and I quickly grew close to him. However, it wasn’t that I was the closest to him. Everyone without exception felt affection for Sanshiro; there was not a soul who didn’t hold some degree of goodwill toward him. This was likely due in part to his family’s wealth—he remained open-hearted among the faculty, his interactions always bright and entirely free from any argumentative tendencies. Why, he was not a man who could tread such a dark path as literature. While growing close to him for no particular reason, I soon came to realize this fact.

What was particularly heartwarming was Sanshiro in his home life. How deeply he loved his beautiful wife and only child was manifested in the female students’ reverence and envy, which exceeded mere lighthearted admiration. In fact, I had never heard any nickname applied to Sanshiro, though every teacher inevitably received one. That was truly something even strange.

Looking back now, perhaps all the seeds of disaster had already taken deep root within Sanshiro's harmonious nature.

At that time in the suburbs of H City, I was the one living closest to Sanshiro's residence. Thus it was I who received the first news of that terrible incident, but as misfortune would have it, this occurred precisely when Sanshiro himself had been away from home for some time, so being caught off guard, I fell into complete panic. The reason Sanshiro had been away from home was that he had been dispatched as a temporary lecturer for the final month of the term to a newly opened agricultural school in the mountainous area of the prefecture, following an assignment from the academic affairs department. That agricultural school was scheduled to begin its winter break from the 25th. Therefore, Sanshiro was scheduled to return to his home in H City on the evening of the 25th.

However, the unfortunate incident occurred a day before Sanshiro’s return—on the evening of the 24th. At that time in Sanshiro’s unoccupied home, a student from M University named Oikawa—Hiroko’s cousin—had been staying since the beginning of the month. Regarding this man, I did not know much. He was simply a bright, upstanding young man who belonged to his university’s ski club and whom I knew only visited his older female cousin in the snow country every winter. Truly, in the suburbs of H City, once December arrived, one could strap on skis right from under the eaves. Oikawa, Hiroko, and Haruo—Sanshiro’s beloved only child, who had just entered elementary school that spring—were the three residing in the unoccupied home. So to speak, Oikawa served as a sort of watchman for Sanshiro’s unoccupied home. Yet despite all that, strange events descended as if appearing out of thin air.

Now, on the evening of December 24th, when the leaden sky that had been overcast since morning broke at dusk, white flakes began fluttering down. The snow that had initially been drifting down almost imperceptibly gradually increased in intensity between six and seven o'clock, falling heavily for a time, but at eight o'clock it ceased abruptly as though a curtain had been raised, and through sudden breaks in the snowfall, a deeply clear starry sky began spreading out with crystalline brilliance. Such sudden weather changes, however, were not considered particularly unusual in this region. Whenever winter deepened, centered around the coldest thirty days, the weather would grow oddly distorted. The days would always remain drearily overcast, and then, with ironic clarity, the nights would clear completely, as the moon and stars began to shine coldly in the vivid navy-blue sky. The local people called this phenomenon "Clear Winter Night."

Having finished my late dinner around eight o'clock, I was preparing to go on a trip somewhere south since the girls' school had already entered its vacation.

A student named Miki from Supplementary Course Class A—where Sanshiro served as homeroom teacher—suddenly came tumbling in with news of the violent incident that had occurred at Sanshiro’s unoccupied home. I felt as though doused with icy water in the freezing air, yet immediately strapped on my skis and began running frantically alongside Miki. When we left the house, the Christmas Eve bells from the city church immediately began ringing; it must have already been nine o'clock by then.

The student named Miki was a large-framed, fresh-faced girl—one of those invariably found in every girls' school, the precocious sort that always numbers two or three members. She knew how to apply makeup, constantly altered her skirt length, and would scribble poets' names in tiny letters along her notebook margins—or so they said. Miki often visited Sanshiro's place too. "I receive instruction in literature from Mr. Asami," she'd claim, though she apparently called frequently even when Sanshiro was away—so perhaps this 'literature' involved Oikawa rather than Sanshiro himself. In any case, Miki had gone to visit Sanshiro's house that night as well. Finding the door unlocked yet sensing no presence inside, she grew suddenly suspicious and—with her usual casual air—tried opening the interior door leading from the entrance. Upon discovering the strange scene within the house, she had rushed straight to my place—the nearest one—or so the account went.

Now, from my house to Sanshiro's, it wouldn't even take ten minutes by skis.

Sanshiro’s residence was a stylish, hut-like dwelling with appropriately arranged log timbers, the rightmost of three similarly lined-up houses. The leftmost house had curtains drawn over its windows, perhaps already settled for the night, and the middle house stood dark with a rental notice affixed. When we reached the front of Sanshiro's house, Miki was already trembling violently and refused to move. So I sent her running for help to the home of Mr. Tabei, a physics teacher at the same girls’ school not far from here. And then, though my body had stiffened instinctively, I resolutely entered Sanshiro’s house.

The room next to the entrance was the child’s room. On the walls were pinned childlike crayon drawings titled "Army General" and "Tulip Soldier". In the center of the room stood a small potted fir tree, its lush branches adorned with flower-shaped ornaments and chains made from gold-threaded tinsel and colored paper, white cotton snow heaped upon them. This was the Christmas tree Sanshiro had bought and potted for his beloved Haruo before leaving to become a temporary lecturer.

However, when I entered that room, what I noticed first was the bed of the Christmas tree's little master laid out before a small desk in the corner. The bedding had been thrown back, with no sign of the child who should have been sleeping there. The silver-paper star atop the Christmas tree that had lost its master glittered as it swayed in a sudden gust of wind, beginning to spin.

But the next moment, I found Oikawa—who had been serving as the temporary caretaker of that room—lying face down with his head turned toward me at the wide-open doorway leading to the inner living room. I involuntarily caught my breath, but sensing through the open doorway that the living room beyond appeared disordered, I immediately composed myself and tiptoed cautiously toward the threshold—peering into the living room while comparing it to the figure collapsed at my feet.

There lay Hiroko Asami—Sanshiro’s wife—collapsed with her head pressed against the stove set upon a wooden frame sheathed in corrugated iron. Her hair was singed, and an unbearable stench permeated the room.

I stood frozen for a moment, trembling violently from both fear and shock, but desperately regaining my composure, I crouched down and cautiously touched Oikawa’s body at my feet. But of course, it was no longer the body of a living person. Both Oikawa and Hiroko appeared to have put up considerable resistance, lying collapsed in terribly disheveled states. Both of them had numerous purple welts visible across all exposed areas—from their foreheads and faces to their arms and necks—as if they had been violently beaten. However, the murder weapon immediately caught my eye. Near Oikawa’s feet, the iron stove poker lay thrown out, bent into a blunt L-shape. The room’s interior had also been violently disordered. The chair had toppled over, the table dragged askew, and the large cardboard toy box that had apparently been placed atop it was now flung onto the floor before the sofa—soaked and trampled—with toy trains, mascots, and a large beautiful top spilled from within, now lay scattered amidst similarly strewn caramels, bonbons, and chocolate animals. There too lingered the vacant innocence of toys that had lost their little master.

Had I rushed into the home of complete strangers and encountered such a scene under these circumstances, I likely would not have been able to examine the state of the crime scene in such meticulous detail. The moment they saw corpses and were terrified out of their wits, they must have dashed straight out and rushed to the police box without hesitation. But at that moment, I was confronted with a terror far more dreadful than anything visible—an unseen horror. When I rushed into the house, the first thing I noticed was that the important child was nowhere to be seen. Strange as it was, I felt a searing anxiety over the safety of the abducted child rather than for the people being killed before my eyes. I, too—just like Oikawa and Hiroko—had a responsibility toward Sanshiro during his absence.

Sanshiro’s house was divided into four rooms in total. There I was, forcing my trembling heart to steady itself as I immediately began investigating the remaining rooms, but even after searching every corner of the house, nowhere could the child be seen.

However, while doing so, I suddenly remembered something and involuntarily stopped short. It was that the window of the room where the tragedy had occurred had been left open with its sliding door undone. There was no need to think—this was certainly odd. In this midwinter night, the room’s window shouldn’t be left open. I immediately visualized the figure of a suspicious man who had bludgeoned two adults to death and had snatched away the child, fleeing in panic through that window without even closing it behind him. Thereupon, I fearfully returned to the original room. And pressing myself against the wall as if bracing against an unseen enemy, I quietly peered out the window.

There on the snow beneath the window lay exactly what I had anticipated. Clearly visible even through night-adjusted vision were disturbed tracks that appeared to have been made by skis. From those chaotic tracks emerged two parallel streaks that slid out, passed through a gap in the living hedge, and vanished into faintly luminous darkness. From beyond that darkness under the starry sky came unceasing Christmas bells—resounding with an eerie clarity like some demonic whisper, their clang and clank echoing ominously through the night.

I resolved without delay. Then I immediately returned to the entranceway, fastened on my skis there, rushed outdoors, circled around the back entrance, and came to beneath the open living room window at the rear side.

The ski tracks left on the snow were indeed two lines; they were unmistakably the tracks left by a single person gliding. Taking care not to trample them, I crossed through a gap in the hedge and immediately began following the tracks.

However, shortly after I began moving forward, I discovered a crucial clue. The ski tracks showed no marks from both poles despite being level-ground skiing. On the left side of the parallel grooves, traces of snow scattered by a pole basket appeared every few yards where it had been planted, but the right side showed none at all. My heart began pounding violently. My deduction had struck true. This meant that while the skier planted his pole with his left hand, he'd been unable to do so with his right. That hand must have been clutching something else entirely. The image rose unbidden in my mind—a child struggling desperately in the arms of some shadowy figure being carried away. My body tensed further as I pressed onward, eyes locked on the tracks ahead while maintaining constant vigilance.

The suspicious ski tracks crossed over the hedge, passed through the vacant lot, and continued on toward the quiet back street. This area was a newly developed residential district on the outskirts of H City, where houses with well-hedged gardens were sparsely scattered across snowy plains that were neither clearly distinguishable as vacant lots nor cultivated fields.

This snow—virgin snow fallen from evening until eight o'clock—lay with its pristine surface scarcely marred by other ski tracks. Only occasionally did fresh trails intersect before houses or dog prints tangle across its expanse; nothing disturbed the suspicious ski tracks. After all, this was the adversary we faced. Trembling with trepidation yet growing ever more cautious, I continued gliding beneath the dense night sky.

The suspicious ski tracks soon turned right into a back street and entered a wide snowfield. Beyond that vacant lot lay the main road that passed in front of Sanshiro’s house and led into the city. The ski tracks headed toward the city, cutting diagonally across the vacant lot, and seemed intent on switching over to the main road ahead. At this rate, I might be able to find a police officer to request assistance along the way. I suddenly became energized and dashed diagonally across the rather wide vacant lot toward the road ahead. However, my assumption ended up being utterly absurd.

The fundamental flaw lay in my initial assumption that the ski tracks had switched over to the main road. Acting on that belief, I had diagonally crossed the snowy field and was already more than halfway across when I suddenly realized I had unwittingly lost sight of the suspicious ski tracks. Startled, I hurriedly scanned my surroundings. But there was nothing on the snow's surface. Only the tracks I had made remained, twisting and turning bit by bit in an utterly unhurried manner.

I berated myself even as I hurriedly turned about. While frantically scanning my surroundings, I began retracing my steps toward the entrance of the original vacant lot. No matter how much I retraced my steps or scanned the area, however, I couldn't find the suspicious ski tracks. "This is strange," I thought, growing increasingly flustered.

However, when I came near the entrance of the vacant lot, I finally found the ski tracks again on the faintly white snow surface. Relieved, I began moving forward while keeping close to the tracks this time—as if reeling in a thread—to ensure I wouldn't lose sight of them. Following them this way confirmed they indeed cut diagonally across the vacant lot toward the main road. Why had I lost sight of them earlier? I continued berating myself while carefully keeping my eyes fixed on the tracks. Yet as I proceeded with redoubled caution this time, I finally noticed something truly bizarre.

For when I approached near the center of the vacant lot, somehow those suspicious ski tracks had grown terribly faint—no, though their traces atop the new snow layered over old snow had never been deep to begin with, they became even shallower than before. What could explain this? As I advanced, as I proceeded, they grew increasingly shallow and thin, leaving my astonished self behind until—upon reaching roughly the lot's midpoint—the shadows faded completely, as though whatever had glided across them had swooshed straight up into the night sky and vanished without a trace.

The manner of their disappearance was such that, no matter how one considered it, either the skier had grown wings or snow had later fallen upon the tracks and erased them—a vanishing so bizarrely vivid that no other explanation could be conceived. Though flustered, I became utterly engrossed in thought. However, as I had mentioned earlier, the snow that had been falling heavily since evening abruptly ceased at eight o'clock, ushering in a Clear Winter Night with no further snowfall thereafter. Even if it had snowed again, why would the snow that erased the tracks beyond this point not have erased those from the crime scene all the way here? Snow falls indiscriminately—all traces should have been erased.—Could some strange blizzard phenomenon have occurred in that vacant lot, where wind-driven snow accumulated to erase just that section of tracks? Yet there should have been no wind strong enough to cause such a storm that night.—I stood frozen in the snowy field like a man possessed. The still-ringing eerie bells continued to quiver through the clear air like demonic laughter.

However, I couldn't remain standing here frozen in place. The abducted child's safety was a matter of urgent concern. In the house lay two corpses. There was no more time to waste—I had to notify the police immediately.

Once I made up my mind, I immediately started running straight toward the city. Rushing into the nearest police box, reporting the incident, and retracing my original path with a young officer from there—yet I found myself unable to stop fixating on the disappearance of the snowy field.

By the time we finally reached Sanshiro's house, two or three people from nearby homes—who seemed to have detected the incident—were fastening their skis and preparing to report it to the police. Before Sanshiro's house stood Miki, her composure lost as she mingled with the crowd, her face on the brink of tears.

Inside the house, Mr. Tabei—whom Miki had sent to call for him—was likely thinking the same thing as I, rattling doors as he searched room to room for the child’s whereabouts.

The police officer entered the house and inspected the scene, then immediately requested that Mr. Tabei and I refrain from disturbing the room until investigators arrived from the main police station. Then he took up position in the separate room that served as Sanshiro’s study, called Miki in from outside, and began conducting a preliminary inquiry into the circumstances.

Miki and I, completely flustered, kept chattering on—interrupting each other and backtracking—as we explained both the previously described path of discovery and details about this house's family. However, Mr. Tabei remained quite composed and spoke little. Before long, a portly superior officer arrived with several subordinates, and the scene investigation commenced. Pop, pop—two or three flashes went off as they photographed the scene. When they finished processing the scene, the police officers circled around outside and began gathering beneath the windows. The portly superior officer had been receiving reports from the young officer while surveying the corpses' condition, but when officers outside started noisily making ski tracks through gaps in the hedge toward the vacant lot beyond, he appeared unable to remain still—entrusting matters to the young officer before exiting through the window.

I wrote a telegram addressed to Sanshiro and had Miki take it to the post office.

And for the first time with a composed mind, I came face to face with Mr. Tabei. Mr. Tabei had already been composed ever since I was explaining various things to the police earlier, but by that point he had grown even calmer—or rather than being composed, he seemed to have become deeply engrossed in thought. What on earth had he become so engrossed in thinking about? Had he perhaps found some special thread of thought?

“Mr. Tabei.” I mustered my resolve and called out.

“What exactly are you thinking about this?” “What exactly do you mean by that?” Mr. Tabei raised his face and blinked his eyes rapidly. “Well, you see,” While looking toward the other room, I said, “As you would understand if you saw it yourself, the footprints of that man who committed such cruelty and abducted the child have completely vanished—as if he soared into thin air. It’s a most peculiar occurrence.”

“Well,” “It is indeed peculiar.” “But if we’re speaking of peculiarities, this case has been nothing but peculiar from the very beginning.” “Well now, that’s quite…” “Do you believe those toys and sweets scattered in that room had been there from the start—that is, before this incident occurred?” “Well, they must have been in that room beforehand—things they were eating and playing with, I suppose.”

“I don’t think so,” Mr. Tabei responded. “If they had been eating anything, there should have been discarded silver or wax paper from caramels or chocolates left behind. Yet when I searched before the police arrived, I found nothing.” “Moreover, all those toys scattered about are brand new. And most peculiarly—that torn cardboard toy box thrown before the sofa was damp despite no traces of spilled tea... I believe some snow had accumulated on its lid and melted from the room’s warmth.” He abruptly changed his tone, peering intently into my eyes. “Ah, but such trivialities matter little... The elements of mystery were complete from the very beginning. On this Christmas Eve... traversing snow on skis... passing through windows... then returning to heaven...”

Mr. Tabei fell abruptly silent and stared into my eyes once more as if urging me, “...Just who do you think it is?...”

“Ah,” I involuntarily groaned. “So you... you’re talking about Santa Claus?”

“That’s right. In other words… to put it simply… Santa Claus appeared in that room.”

I was more than a little surprised. "However, that’s quite a cruel Santa Claus, isn’t it?" “That’s right. “What an outrageous Santa Claus… Perhaps the devil came disguised as Santa Claus,” Mr. Tabei said here, suddenly reverting to a serious tone as he stood up. “No—but it seems that disguise has already begun to peel away. “...For me, this mystery has become more than half clear. Now then—let us chase after Santa Claus’s tracks.”

Mr. Tabei went to the entrance of the living room, informed the officer inside—who had been busily taking notes on the scene—that he was going out, then exited through the front entrance while signaling to me with his eyes. Though I couldn’t comprehend the reason, I found myself drawn to Mr. Tabei’s seemingly confident demeanor and stood up unsteadily. And while envisioning both those strange ski tracks we were about to pursue and the figure of the portly officer who must undoubtedly be standing at their endpoint even now—arms crossed, gazing up at the night sky—I followed after Mr. Tabei.

However, once outside, Mr. Tabei—for some reason—did not head toward the rear window but instead stood at the front gate of the hedge and began scanning the street ahead with sweeping glances. On the snow there lay several crisscrossed footprints from people coming and going, while neighbors stood with pale faces. What on earth had happened here?

“Mr. Tabei. The footprints are from the back window.”

“Ah, that one?” Mr. Tabei turned back and “That one is no longer necessary.” “I’m searching for another track.” “Another track, you say?”

Before I knew it, I found myself asking in return. “Indeed it is,” Mr. Tabei said with a laugh. “There was only one person’s worth of tracks outside the window, right? You see, those can’t possibly be round-trip tracks. If Santa Claus exited from there, there should be another entry track—and if he entered from there, there should naturally be an exit track.” Then, looking up at the Asami residence’s roof with a smirk, he added, “No matter how much of a Santa Claus he is, he couldn’t possibly have entered through that narrow chimney… This isn’t some fairy tale, after all.”

Indeed, there must be tracks that entered from somewhere. I noticed my own obtuseness and involuntarily felt my face flush. But at that moment, an idea suddenly flashed through my mind like lightning. "Ah, Mr. Tabei. I understand now. "...Before eight o'clock, it was still snowing, wasn't it?" "So Santa Claus entered here before eight o’clock and left after the snow had stopped past eight—that’s how it must have been." “Therefore, the tracks from when he entered were erased by the snow, leaving only those from when he departed—that’s how it must have been.”

Then Mr. Tabei shook his head quietly in unexpected fashion. “That’s where you’re completely mistaken.” “Admittedly, that line of thinking does seem reasonable at first glance.” “I too initially considered that possibility when I first saw only one track beneath the window.” “However, when I later heard from you that those tracks had disappeared, I realized my error.” “The crux lies in those tracks that vanished midway.”

“When you say that…?” “So after all—the snow piled up?” “That’s right.” “Then why did the snow fall in such an uneven, unfair way?”

Then Mr. Tabei placed his hand on my shoulder.

“You’ve erred at the very foundation of your reasoning.” “Let me explain—people were killed in that room, and a crucial child has been taken.” “With the window left open and those clear single-pole ski tracks outside—apparently made by someone carrying a child in one arm—by the time you observed all this, you’d already concluded that the fiend who stole the child must have escaped through that window.” “That’s precisely where your fundamental mistake lies,” Mr. Tabei continued, altering his tone and gesturing with his hands. “Now then—consider this scenario.” “Suppose someone was walking through heavily falling snow.” “But imagine that as they kept walking, the snow suddenly stopped and the skies cleared completely—what would become of their footprints then?” “To put it plainly—while snow falls, any footprints made are immediately erased at their trailing edge. But once the snowfall ceases abruptly, footprints only begin accumulating from that cessation point onward.” “If you trace these footprints backward against their direction of travel, they’ll appear to fade and vanish entirely—as though the person simply disappeared… This means neither that snow fell after someone passed through, nor that someone walked after the snow stopped—rather, precisely during their journey, midway through their progress, the snowfall that had continued until then ceased… Now you must surely grasp the true nature of those vanished tracks.” “In other words—the maker of those tracks didn’t exit through this house’s window at that time, but rather entered through it.” “Moreover, since tonight’s snow stopped precisely around eight o’clock, we can reasonably estimate that Santa Claus arrived from town and entered through this window at approximately that same hour.”

“I see—now I fully understand.” I added while scratching my head. “So then, what about those single-pole tracks?”

“That? Oh, that’s nothing.” “As you initially thought, that Santa Claus was indeed carrying something in one hand.” “However, that was not a child, but a large cardboard toy box soaked with snow that had been lying in that room.” “It was Santa Claus’s gift…” Here Mr. Tabei paused and continued in a renewed tone, “Now then—you must have a good grasp of things by now.” “Since the window tracks clearly came from outside, there are no other tracks that seem to have exited, and with neither Santa Claus nor the child’s shadow remaining in the house—it’s certain they must have left through this front entrance… By the way—when you first rushed here, were there any tracks resembling theirs at the front entrance?” “—They left here before you did, you know.”

“Well…that… I was in such a panic at the time…” “Then there’s no help for it.” “Let’s search through all these tracks for ones made with a single pole—even if it’s tedious.”

Mr. Tabei promptly crouched down and began searching for tracks that seemed to match. Naturally, I too followed after him and began wandering through the faint white snowlight. The gawkers on the main street, their eyes gleaming with curiosity as they wondered what had happened, watched our movements.

On the snow, our ski tracks and those of the police officers were intricately intertwined, making it difficult to find any single-pole ski tracks. It seemed the police officers who had gone to investigate the end of those notorious ski tracks had finally returned, making the house feel somehow livelier.

At that moment, Mr. Tabei came over to me and suddenly posed a question.

“The one who arrived here before you was that Miki from Class A… Miki was wearing adult-sized skis, wasn’t she?” When I nodded,

“So after all, they’re the child’s.” Muttering something incomprehensible, he led me along the road’s hedge and pointed to two sets of ski tracks left there while speaking. “It’s no wonder there are no single-pole tracks.” “The child wasn’t carried off by Santa Claus—he was led by Santa Claus and skied away on his own.”

Sure enough, on the snow, alongside adult-sized ski tracks, tracks from skis slightly narrower in width proceeded along the main street.

“Come on, let’s hurry and follow these tracks before they summon us for questioning.”

We immediately set off skiing.

Since a considerable amount of time had already passed, it was unclear how far those who left the tracks had progressed. At first I started skiing with that thought, but after proceeding some fifty meters along the hedge, both tracks suddenly veered rightward as if avoiding something approaching from ahead. I froze in shock. It was the neighboring vacant house. The two tracks appeared to have entered through the front of the modest hedge, bypassed the entrance, and circled around from the side of the dark building toward the rear. We began following them with bated breath.

“It was closer than expected.” Mr. Tabei said, his face pale as he walked. “This seems likely to end badly… Now then—who do you think Santa Claus actually is?… You’ve surely realized by now?”

I trembled violently while shaking my head. Mr. Tabei stepped into the vacant house’s garden while

“Even if you’ve realized it, isn’t this something loathsome to voice?” “……In this situation, who would become Santa Claus and deliver gifts through a window?… Moreover, the child didn’t need to be carried—he could ski alongside on his own… If I recall correctly, there was a train arriving in H City around seven-thirty?” “……I can’t help thinking Mr. Asami returned on that train—a full day earlier than planned.”

“What?! Sanshiro?!” I involuntarily cried out. “That’s absurd! Even if Sanshiro had returned, why would he commit such an atrocity… No! How could a man who cherished his family so deeply do something like this?!”

But by that time, Mr. Tabei—who had circled to the back of the vacant house—found two sets of skis, one large and one small, discarded beneath a window there, immediately lunged at the unlatched window, and entered the pitch-dark room. Following this, as I lunged at the window frame, I heard Mr. Tabei’s moan—a trembling sound rising from the darkness.

“Ah… It was too late after all.” As my eyes gradually adjusted to the darkness, I too finally saw the dreadfully altered figure of Sanshiro Asami hanging by a curtain cord suspended from the ceiling. At his feet lay the child, strangled with a band, lying as though asleep. A few chocolate balls were scattered about. Beside them lay a neatly folded piece of paper. Mr. Tabei picked it up, glanced at the cover, then silently held it out to me. That was Sanshiro’s suicide note addressed to me—the only one he had left. Appearing to have been hastily written by snowlight, it was a rough pencil scrawl, but by the window, trembling as I was, I managed to make it out.

Hatano. At last, I fell into hell. However, I want you alone to know the truth of what happened. The agricultural school was closed one day earlier than planned due to an avalanche. Having arrived in town on the seven-thirty train, I realized tonight was Christmas Eve, bought a present for Haruo, and hurried home. You knew well, I think, how ordinary a man I was, how I loved my wife, my child, and my home. I thought about how delighted my wife and child would be at my return a day earlier than planned, and wanting to amplify that joy even further, I suddenly hit upon the idea of Santa Claus. I, nearly bursting with happiness, deliberately circled to the back of the house, muffled my footsteps, and upon reaching the living room window, quietly took off my skis, planted my pole against them, climbed onto the window frame, and—while picturing my family’s astonished delight in my mind—opened the glass door.

Ah, but there I saw something I should never have laid eyes on! I entered the room and hurled the souvenir toy box—that had been the very embodiment of my happiness until that moment—before Oikawa and my wife, who trembled as they clung to each other on the sofa.

But Hatano, How could such seething hatred ever abate over something like that? And what I did with the stove poker through my tears—you must already know. When Haruo woke in the next room, I deceived him to keep my deeds hidden—led him outside to flee. Ah, but now I’ve lost all paths of escape. Even had escape remained possible—how could this wounded heart ever find salvation?

Hatano. I will embrace what little solace remains in this dark journey's beginning being shared with my beloved Haruo. Farewell. Sanshiro

Sanshiro Outside the window, a night wind had risen unnoticed, a snowstorm raging like swirling funeral flowers, while the church bells that had momentarily fallen silent began ringing ethereally once more, constricting my trembling heart as though submerged in water.

("Shin Seinen" December 1936 [Showa 11])